


A Better Plan

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Background Elizabeth/Peter, Fic, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal opened the envelope and tipped out a slippery handful of photos, and for a second he thought they were from the Jennings case, those pictures of Peter and Diana that had caused so much trouble. But this time it wasn't Diana looking up at Peter with a drink in hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Set in early-mid season 4.
> 
> A million thanks to mergatrude for beta.

Neal was absorbed in the early stages of copying a Turner, getting the sky exactly right, and permitting himself a moment's nostalgia for Cape Verde. He didn't really want to go back—his life was in New York, and being on the run was precarious no matter how many palms were greased—but the climate during his sojourn was a significant improvement on New York in December, and he'd enjoyed the luxury of swimming in his private pool.

But that was all behind him. He was back, Mozzie was back and Peter had worked his way out of the evidence lockup and returned to his rightful place in White Collar. Everything was as it should be. 

Someone knocked on the door. It wasn't a coded knock, so probably Peter.

"Come in," called Neal, wiping his brush on the palette and loading it with teal.

"Hey," said Peter. He was still in his work clothes and carrying a yellow envelope. His mouth was pinched at the corners. 

There was enough awkward gravity in his manner that Neal put down his brush and wiped his hands, giving him his full attention. "Hey. What's going on?"

Peter leaned against the kitchen counter. His shoulders were stiff, his fingers clutching the envelope tightly. "You know Diana and I have been busy the last couple of days." 

"Closing the case against Howells, yeah." Neal had been left to his own devices, stuck at his desk while the two of them wrangled red tape and checked to make sure the evidence was watertight.

"We weren't working on Howells." Peter pressed his lips together, sighed through his nose and leaned forward to pass Neal the envelope. 

Curious, Neal opened it and tipped out a slippery handful of photos, and for a second he thought they were from the Jennings case, those pictures of Peter and Diana that had caused so much trouble. But this time it wasn't Diana looking up at Peter with a drink in hand.

These were from last week. Thursday night. He and Peter had caught a break on an embezzler, but they hadn't been able to follow up their lead until the next morning. It had been late. Elizabeth had been upstairs asleep, and Neal and Peter had stood close, their voices low so as not to disturb her. Neal remembered being aware of the heat of Peter's body. "Who took these? Seriously, Peter, your yard has no security. At least get some motion sensor lights."

Peter waved his hand impatiently, dismissing Neal's concerns. Not the point.

Neal looked back at the photos, leafed through them. Lamplight reflected off the glossy surfaces, but even so, his own expression in the pictures was unmistakable—the softness in his eyes, the curve of his lips. He forced himself not to react, not to reveal anything, but if that was how he looked at Peter, it was far too late. His faith in his own discretion, his powers of dissembling, crumbled. Everyone must already know how he felt. Peter must know.

Someone had taken photos of them. "What am I looking at? Are these—"

"Maria Angotti," said Peter. "Howells' girlfriend. She wanted me to drop the case."

Neal clamped down on his immediate reaction—violation and fury. He made himself sound businesslike. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Diana and I handled it." Peter was looking anywhere but at Neal. "It's over."

"Did you arrest her?" Maybe Peter was here to warn him there'd be a court case, with all the inevitable public scrutiny that would bring. Neal's hopeless feelings splashed across the front page of the newspapers. 

But Peter shook his head. "I talked to her. Explained the penalties for attempting to blackmail a federal officer," he said. "She's just a kid who's watched too many TV shows."

"And owns an expensive camera."

Peter's lips twitched, but he was still tense. "If we'd made a big deal of it—"

It would have confirmed her suspicions. Neal felt a rush of gratitude that didn't eclipse the anger but eased it a little. "So—Okay. You dealt with it. So why are you telling me now?"

Peter did look at him then, a dry, pointed gaze. "We need to talk."

Neal placed the photos on the table next to his paint palette. He didn't want to touch them anymore, let alone look at them, and he was suddenly fiercely glad that he and Moz had never resorted to this particular crime, turning the screws on people's secret weaknesses. They'd done plenty of unfair things, but they hadn't done this. 

He went to the fridge, got Peter a beer, poured himself a glass of wine, trying to defuse the situation. Minimize the damage. 

Peter put the beer down untouched and cleared his throat. "Listen, Neal, I'm going to hand you over to Diana. She'll be your handler from now on. I'm stepping back."

"Peter—" Neal shook his head. No way. He hadn't come back to New York to partner with someone else.

"Someone tried to blackmail me, Neal." Peter stared past him into the middle distance, maybe out into the night. He sounded grim and something else. Pained, maybe. He didn't want to let Neal go.

Neal tried to reassure him. "You didn't do anything wrong. Blackmail preys on guilt as much as evidence."

"I know. That's why we caught Angotti. But—" Peter's shoulders moved restlessly in his suit jacket. It wasn't pain; it was embarrassment. Neal's feelings embarrassed him.

Neal curled his free hand into a fist and slid it into his pocket. He drank a mouthful of wine that couldn't wash the bitter taste from his mouth. "But you feel dirty."

Peter pushed off from the counter and walked over to the French doors before he answered. "I'm responsible for you. I'm supposed to protect you, not—" 

"I don't need protecting," said Neal, his chin coming up. "If anyone needs protecting it's—"

"—not make you uncomfortable," continued Peter, talking over him.

Neal stopped short, his gaze swinging to Peter's back. The angle of his neck. "Me uncomfortable," he repeated. 

Peter went very still. Silence filled the room, thickening the air, and Neal strode back to the table, put down his glass and stared at the top photo. At Peter's expression in it, the way he was looking at Neal, warm and intimate. Neal had been so preoccupied with his own exposure, Peter's hadn't registered before.

Neal looked up, his heart thundering in his chest. "Has Elizabeth seen these?"

"Yeah." Peter was still staring out the window. He cleared his throat and turned back to face the room. "She offered to come with me this evening."

"What, to chaperone?"

"I don't think that's how she'd phrase it," said Peter drily. He ran his hand over the back of his head. "Moral support, maybe."

For a second Neal couldn't breathe. "What kind of moral support?"

"Forget it," said Peter. "Nothing." He shook his head, and his voice was rough when he continued. "I can't be your handler anymore."

"We're partners. You can't just stop—" Neal was going to fight, every step, rather than lose what they had. What they could have.

"I have to."

"Why?"

Peter inhaled sharply. "You know why."

"And what if there's another way?" Neal sifted through Angotti's photos, looking for the most telling one. It felt like hurling himself off a cliff, but if Peter was throwing away their partnership, Neal had little to lose. And, if the camera wasn't lying, everything to gain. "Take another look at these, Peter. This one."

Peter frowned as he took the photo Neal held out to him. "I've seen this."

"Look at me."

Peter obediently glanced in his direction, but Neal pointed to the picture.

"There. It wasn't just you Angotti was blackmailing."

Peter stared down at the photo, and Neal could see the exact moment when he got it, the way his eyes widened, the flush that spread across the back of his neck. 

"Peter." Neal stepped closer till they were only a foot or two apart and lowered his voice. "Don't hand me off to Diana."

Peter was still staring at the photo, but he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I'd have to give up who I am."

"No, you'd have to bend a little bit." Neal waited until Peter looked up, locked gazes with him. "I've changed for you."

"Neal, I can't." Peter's jaw tightened. 

Neal wondered how long he'd wanted this, how hard it had been. If he'd lain awake at nights like Neal had, reliving conversations and gestures, fantasizing. "You can if you want to," Neal told him. "I want to."

Peter's mouth turned down. "It's wrong."

Neal blew out a breath. He had thought he'd argue until he was hoarse, but he couldn't fight that. "Okay. Then you should go."

Peter blinked. "I thought you'd try to talk me around."

"You're my partner," said Neal evenly. "Everything I have is yours for the asking. I'm not going to persuade you to do something you think is wrong."

Peter gathered the photos together and put them back in the envelope, then went to the door. He stopped and half turned back. "I didn't know you felt it too."

"I know." 

"I'm sorry." Peter said it so quietly Neal could barely hear him.

"Don't be sorry." Neal shoved his hands back into his pockets. "You're being Peter Burke. I respect that, however much I wish—" He trailed off. There was no point spelling it out. 

Peter was grasping the door handle, his other hand flat against the door, but he didn't leave. "And if I—If we—Could you respect me then?"

"I would," said Neal. He forced himself to tell the whole truth. "So long as it didn't hurt Elizabeth." He didn't care about the FBI, but he would cut his tracker and run before he brought trouble to Peter and Elizabeth's marriage. 

Peter closed his eyes. "It wouldn't be like that. I don't understand it, but she—" He shook his head. "How long have you known?"

"I didn't know either," said Neal. "Not until just now."

"Knowing—changes things." The words were quiet and heavy with honesty, and they seemed to fill the room. 

Neal got it: when he'd thought he was alone in his desire, it had been easy to reconcile himself to nothing happening. Now he knew they were both denying themselves and the only obstacle was Peter's conscience—Neal's resolve was slipping, persuasion and pleading crowding his tongue. He bit them back and folded his arms. "Peter, if you're going, you need to go."

Peter's hand fell away from the door, but still he didn't leave. 

Neal watched, helpless and torn, his blood thrumming with possibilities. Vividly aware of the length of Peter's body, his strength and heat. "I don't want you to regret anything."

"There are regrets either way," said Peter, turning to him, and at the look on his face, something broke inside Neal, the thin bands that had been holding him back, and he saw them break in Peter too. As if a signal had been given, they moved into each other's arms, their mouths colliding in a hot, hungry rush. 

Peter's hands spread across his back, dragging across Neal's tank top, searing his skin, and Neal was already trying to get Peter out of his suit. He tugged the jacket from his shoulders, his shirt from his pants. Peeled back everything that got in his way, kissing him all the while.

When he finally got his hands on Peter's skin—the small of his back, above the waist of his pants—Peter gasped and pulled away far enough to ask, "This is what you want?"

"This is just the beginning of what I want." Neal pushed him against the door, groping him through his pants. "What about you?"

"More than you can imagine." Peter hauled him close again, slipping his hands under Neal's top and pushing it up over his head, and Peter might have ten years on Neal and legal authority over him, but none of that meant anything here. 

They were both bare-chested, and the combination of Peter's body pressed against him and his arms and hands everywhere was so overwhelming that Neal grabbed his wrists and pinned him to the door. "Wait, wait, wait."

Before Peter could misunderstand or freak out that Neal had changed his mind, Neal adjusted his grip so he could hold both Peter's wrists in one hand and opened Peter's pants with the other. He dug into his underwear and wrapped his hand around Peter's cock, working him hard and fast.

Peter's breath scored the air, his hips hitching forward, but he didn't object or make any move to free himself. He just watched Neal through heavy-lidded eyes, letting Neal do whatever he wanted, so gorgeously, thoroughly turned on that Neal didn't think he'd ever be able to look at him again without seeing him like this. 

Neal leaned in and licked a stripe up his neck, tasting faint sweat and skin, breathing him in. Musky and masculine. Sexy as hell. "Mm, you smell great."

"Neal." It was almost a groan. "Slow, just—ah, take your time. I'm—I want—" Peter bent his head to meet Neal's mouth, and Neal slid his tongue between Peter's lips and sweetened the kiss. He made himself slow his strokes, savoring the feel of Peter's cock in his hand, thick and hard, the slight pull of velvet hot skin, making it last for Peter. Letting urgency dissipate into luxury and appreciation. 

Peter's wrists shifted in Neal's grasp and one slipped free. Neal let the other move down to beside Peter's head and intertwined their fingers, still pressing against the door but palm to palm now. 

Peter's free arm came around him, warm and solid on his back, and then Peter's fingers fisted in his hair and pulled, making Neal arch up into his hold, excitement coursing through him. He resisted, more to test Peter's reaction than because he didn't like it, and Peter loosened his grip immediately, rubbed his fingertips against Neal's scalp to soothe the sting—and that was good too. God, everything about this was good. Neal's nerves were alive, and he was more turned on than he'd known was possible. 

He tightened his grip on Peter's cock and on the next upstroke, brushed his thumb across the head, smoothing the wetness there and making Peter groan into Neal's mouth. Peter widened his stance as far as he could with his suit pants and underwear still around his knees, and canted his hips forward. He was leaning heavily against the door, beads of sweat at his hairline. Neal took a moment to regret not relocating to the bed and getting Peter horizontal, but there'd be other occasions. Neal wasn't going to let Peter off the hook, not ever. And he wasn't going to interrupt this now for anything.

"Jesus," hissed Peter. "I'm gonna—"

Neal had a flash of brain static under the white hot realization that Peter—who he'd been wanting for so long, who had seemed unattainable for so many reasons even to a world class thief, who Neal respected and admired and, yes, loved—was here with him, practically naked and about to come in his arms, and then it was happening. Peter pulsed hot and wet on Neal's belly, Neal's name on his lips.

Neal felt as wrecked as if the orgasm had been his own, but it wasn't, he was still hard, and Peter was apparently fully aware of that. Peter wasted no time. He extricated his trapped hand from Neal's hold and opened Neal's khakis, then swiped his fingers through the smear on Neal's stomach and used it as lube as he finally put his hand on Neal and began to jack him off, firm and steady and gentle. Neal's legs almost buckled. He thrust into the circle of Peter's fist, unable to help himself, and muttered, "Yeah, yeah, just like that. Ohh—"

Peter cupped his jaw and drew him close again, kissed him languorous and wet, and Neal gave himself up to it, to the kiss and Peter's hand on him. He surrendered everything, trusting Peter to take care of it, to make it good. Peter seemed capable and sure of himself, and his mouth was soft and loving, and Neal was too busy going out of his mind to hold back. He was feverish with arousal and a dark desperation that ratcheted up and up and up. Peter's tongue slid against his own, the taste of his lips, his hand, and _fuck—_

His orgasm surged through him, making him spill into Peter's hand before he could choke out a warning. It was so intense his scalp prickled and his calves ached, and he slumped against Peter, hanging on, while the last shivers of it zapped around his body. "Whoa."

Peter was kissing his ear, his cheek, whatever he could reach, and Neal raised a hand and patted him clumsily. "Hey."

"Jesus, Neal." Peter sounded as dazed as Neal felt.

"Uh, Peter?" Neal shifted his weight and then leaned to one side and kicked off his pants completely. That was better. He moved back into Peter's arms. "Here's the thing. You can't change your mind about this."

"Is that so?" Peter looked more amused than panicky, but Neal needed to be sure.

"No freaking out or backpedalling." Neal kissed him. "Now I've finally got you—"

"I know," said Peter softly. "Me too." He kissed Neal back, and Neal took a deep steadying breath and relaxed all the way. Maybe he'd never move again. There was no reason they couldn't sleep here, standing up, wrapped around each other. Peter's shoulder was broad and would make a good pillow, and they could call in sick tomorrow—

"Something I have to ask you," said Peter. He was stroking up and down Neal's spine, and every time he reached the top of Neal's ass, Neal felt a little jolt, even though he was wiped out, no way could he go again. The suggestion of it was hot, though. Definitely something to keep in mind.

But Peter was saying something. 

"Mmm?"

"Just wondering, how do you feel about spectators?" 

Oh hell, the blackmail. Neal leaned back to see his face. "You don't have to worry, Peter. No one can see us here. Moz checked the sightlines when I first moved in."

Peter frowned for a second, then his expression cleared. "No, I meant—" He gave a small, awkward shrug. "El's gonna be sorry she missed this."

Neal blinked. "Really?"

"She'd like to watch," said Peter. "It's completely up to you, but I know she'd appreciate it."

"I'll, uh—" Neal tried to get his head around that, the idea of Elizabeth pulling up a chair, purse at her feet, hands folded decorously in her lap. Maybe she'd bring popcorn. Would her presence make Peter self-conscious? Would it make _him_ self-conscious? He and Peter still had a lot to learn about each other, a lot of boundaries to test, and Elizabeth's gaze could be piercing. On the other hand, the idea of her getting turned on from it—that was sexy. Neal was too comfortable right now to consider all the angles and implications. "Maybe. I'll think about it."

"Okay," said Peter. "If and when you're ready. You don't have to say yes."

There was a faint smear of teal on his neck. Neal must not have wiped all the paint from his hands earlier. He rubbed it into Peter's skin, wondering where else he'd left marks. He'd have to check Peter's suit pants before he left. Then their earlier conversation caught up with him. "And you're not handing me over to Diana. You can't now."

"Not Diana or anyone," said Peter, so deep and firm it sounded like a promise. 

"Good," said Neal contentedly. "You know, this is the best possible outcome of an attempted blackmailing."

"It beats my first plan," agreed Peter. 

"Your first plan was terrible, Peter," said Neal. "That's why you need me."

"My first plan was responsible," said Peter, correcting him.

"That's what I said." Neal smirked and ran his hand down Peter's side. "Here's another plan I just made up." He grabbed Peter's wrist and tugged him toward the bed, waiting while Peter hitched up his pants so he could walk.

"Bed is your plan?" said Peter, his eyes warm and laughing. He kicked off his shoes and shucked off the rest of his clothes, leaving them piled on the floor. Neal decided not to care.

"Don't knock it, bed is a great plan." Neal pulled him down onto the sheets and wrapped him in his arms, both of them finally completely naked and together. "It's a classic."

"Not arguing," said Peter. His hands roamed all over Neal's skin, pausing over the bullet scar on Neal's leg and then moving on. "Not arguing at all."

 

END


End file.
